He dreams of shoes I threw away, the thigh gap
I had yesterday, while I prefer his glasses and his gray.
He worries about other men I slept with before I picked him,
jealous of a shadow on the floor.
I traded in my lipsticks, paints, for moisturizer and bare face,
a ponytail behind the camera lens.
I make his bed and cook him dinner, study over algorithms,
while he complains my meatloaf tastes too dry.
And despite all this normalcy, he still can't connect with me
and I can't feel a damn thing anymore.
I practice my photography and write a little poetry
but even in my nightmares, I don't cry.
If he died tomorrow night, I'd just stare at him awhile,
pick up the phone and tell them he expired.
I'd wear a black dress, place a rose, then go back to
my day as though we never shared a moment of this life.
I guess that's called growing up, or it could be getting tough,
but I don't bother narrowing it down.
If I can't frame it through a lens, or crop it to an 8x10,
it bears no significance to me.